


i'll cut your little heart out

by evewithanapple



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-30 19:59:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6438217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn’t want to feel loved, and you don’t want to love her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll cut your little heart out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Icie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icie/gifts).



Everything about her is red. Red dress, red nails, red lips- the only part that isn't red is her hair, and even then you can still see some flecks of copper in the black. You can't see her shoes from where you're standing, back against the wall and watching her from afar, but you're willing to bet that they're dyed to match the rest of her. Variations on a theme, symphonic notes in blood.

The colour says danger to you, but apparently not to anyone else; men are flocking around her, each one granted a few seconds of undivided attention before she smoothly turns them away with a pat on the cheek or a dismissive flick of her wrist. She knows you're watching, and you know that she knows, and you can't help but feel like this is all a performance put on for your benefit, right down to the venue. Of course she'd want to meet in a smoke-filled bar, where the haze of tobacco and hashish keeps you from focusing a clear head on- well, anything. And of course she's dragging it out, letting you enjoy the show until just before interest is overtaken by frustration and you storm out. She's playing you like a fiddle, and you know it.

Of course, knowing a thing and doing something about it are two very different things.

At long last, she scatters her admirers and saunters across the room to you, eyelashes sweeping against her cheeks. You pick up your case and straighten up, tracking her with your eyes to make sure she doesn't duck away at the last minute and leave you hanging angry and unfulfilled. She doesn't. Instead, she brushes past you, letting the satin of her dress just glance against your legs- and you're wearing stockings, cheap and thin ones, so you feel it- and beckoning you on with a single crooked finger. You follow, feeling an awful lot like a fish on a hook.

She's got a private room in the back, which is where she leads you, shutting and locking the door behind her before letting herself droop down onto the fainting couch. She sighs as she does it, putting on an air of exhaustion, but you know there's not an inch of her that isn't thrumming with the thrill of the game. You can see it in the little glances she gives you, eyes tilting upwards under hooded lids when she thinks you're not looking. Or maybe she knows you're looking, and that's why she does it. You'd put nothing past her.

"Dunno what you wanted to see me for," she says with a toss of her head. "My boyfriend's out of town, I don't know when he'll be back."

"I think you do," you say stiffly, watching her for a reaction. A yawn is all she gives you, one hand lifted to cover her mouth. "You think wrong, then. He doesn't tell me his business."

"Doesn't he?"

She ignores you, bending down to slide her shoes off- red heels, just like you suspected- and letting a glimpse of her garter flash through the slit in her skirt. "Gosh," she says, "doesn't it get tedious? Being so suspicious all the time?" She looks up at you through her eyelashes again. "How come you don't trust me?"

"Because I've seen your name come up one too many times," you say stiffly, trying to ignore the garter. "There's not a murder or robbery happens in this town where I don't end up finding your signature somewhere nearby. It gets so's I start coming to you as soon as I get the notice." You lean against the wall. "Not that you ever give me anything."

"Well," she says, a purr low in her throat, "what is it you want from me?" Her dress, designed to hang from her shoulders, is slipping down; you can see the tops of her breasts gleaming in the low light. God _damn_ but she's suited to this; nature made her beautiful and life made her cunning, and she knows how to work every single one of her assets. You couldn't have asked for a better adversary if she'd come tailor-made from a shop.

"Don't you know by now?" you ask. Your voice has gotten husky, both from the smoke and from the tantalizing morsels she's dropped in your path. "You're a lot of things, but dumb ain't one of them."

At this, she stands sauntering back across the room until you're crowded against the wall. Her perfume is overwhelming, heavy notes of rose and jasmine that made your head spin. She leans in until your breasts are pressed together and you could easily hook a foot around the back of her leg and bring her crashing down. "Then why," she says, breath heavy and moist, "don't you do something about it?"

No one ever accused you of waiting to get what you want.

No one ever accused you of subtlety, either.

So you slide an arm around her waist, yank her in closer, and bring your mouth down to the join of her shoulder. She makes a little "mmm" sound in the back of her throat as you sink your teeth into her skin, swirling your tongue over the dents. One of her arms comes up around your waist plucking your shirttails from your skirt and then sliding up your back to pluck at the hooks of your brassiere. You grab her arm, pushing her back. "You're not running the show here, sweetheart."

She tilts her head back, revealing the bruise already forming on her neck. "Then why don't you speed things up yourself?"

It's all the invitation you really need to crush your mouth over hers', swallowing the noises she makes next as you bite at her lower lip and grab her waist, pulling her in tight. She undulates against you, sliding her satin-clad leg against your hip so you're pressed pelvis to pelvis. The top of her dress comes undone in one swift pull, and the fabric of her brassiere is so thin, she's practically naked. That doesn't stop you from yanking at the straps until it comes off too, and her breasts are bare for you to take and taste. You slide down her body, taking one nipple in your mouth while flicking at the other with your thumb, feeling triumph swell at the noises she's making now- involuntary ones, you're almost certain, because you've got the upper hand now. 

If she were anyone else- a date, a girlfriend, someone you cherished without any lingering suspicion or frustration- you might drop lower to kiss her stomach, or between her breasts, or across her face- little things to make her feel loved. But she doesn’t want to feel loved, and you don’t want to love her, so you don’t do any of those things. Instead you keep on kissing and sucking her breasts while her fingers comb through and grip at your hair and she hisses demands that you move faster. You ignore the demands. This is your play now; you decide where it goes.

You pull back for a moment, contemplating what you want to do next- if you want to taste her or watch as you pull her apart. The latter sounds like a better idea just now, so you stand up as you slide a hand through the slit in her skirt, skim your fingers over the edge of her stockings, and then hook your fingers underneath her girdle. You don’t waste any time in finding what you’re looking for, and she hisses as you slide two fingers into her at once, rubbing up against the pressure of your hand like a cat in heat. You keep your thumb pressed hard against her clit, uninterested in taking it slow or being gentle- you want to fuck her _hard_. Judging by the way she's mewling and undulating under your hands, she wants the same thing. She drags her nails down your neck, and you hiss, biting her lip in retaliation. It's your relationship in microcosm, the line between pleasure and pain so thin that it's practically indistinguishable. You wouldn't have it any other way.

She jerks her hips up as she comes, shuddering silently, her long fingers still wrapped around the back of your neck. You press your teeth against her shoulder one last time before you let go, leaning back against the wall. You don't expect her to return the favour- why spoil her make-up?- so it comes as a surprise when she slides one perfectly manicured hand between your legs, stroking you through your pantyhose. The added friction of the fabric feels delicious pulling across your skin, so you chase her hand back and forth with your body, silently (always silently) begging for more. It's not long before you're coming too, head thrown back, eyes shut tight against her triumphant gaze. You try hard to get your breathing under control, not wanting to cede any ground that might suggest she's gotten under your skin. After a few moments, you open your eyes and catch her catlike expression. True to form, she looks as composed as ever; she could walk out of this room right now, and no one would suspect a thing.

"Does that answer your question?" she asks, mouth pulling in the slightest of smirks. You don't deign to answer that, reaching down instead to straighten out your skirt and make yourself presentable again. 

"I'll be back tomorrow," you say, hoping your voice carries the right warning tone, "and I want you to be ready with answers for me then." You don't look back at her as you leave, but that doesn't stop her mocking laugh from following you down the hall, sparking low at the base of your spine and creeping through your body like a virus. Your thighs are still wet, and you feel it every time they rub together. You'll pay her back for that soon.

You always do.


End file.
